


Shangri-La

by minimumobsession



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Barista and Artist AU, College AU, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, artist!junhui, barista/music producer!wonwoo, comment if i need to tag or change the rating, cuz when do i not do college aus, i cant do summaries, like it's a sex scene but there isnt anything explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minimumobsession/pseuds/minimumobsession
Summary: Junhui found love in art at the age of four.Wonwoo found love in music at the age of six.They would find love in each other at the age of twenty-three.





	Shangri-La

**Author's Note:**

> totally inspired by underrated vixx... send them love  
> fun fact: so i wrote most of this during my trip to taiwan/japan and when i came back i still had a bit to finish,but like i have the worst case of post-vacation depression...it sounds stupid , but (this is going to be long and unnecessary so u can skip unless u like rants about feelings and asian things) like i never realized how much i've been deprived of being east asian  
> like being surrounded by other asians (despite my inability to fully converse) was so nice? like i didn't feel like an outsider really because people actually looked like me... like east asians were actually on billboards and ads and magazines.. it was so so nice  
> and kpop is actually a thing that isn't taboo. in shibuya i saw sf9 on a billboard and seventeen on a advertisement truck promoting their concert and blasting their music and exo was on pepero boxes and krystal was modeling keds and stores actually played kpop  
> like it was so refreshing and nice to see people actually enjoy the thing i keep secret from people in my personal like  
> and now i really want to live in that environment because i live in a place of 1% asians  
> sorry for ranting, please enjoy this fic because it was so fun to write and it's one of my favorites, along with blossom and bubibu  
> also i am not an artist.. i used to draw a lot but not anymore so if said something really stupid in the art world, commenet and i will fix !!!

Bright colors defined his life. Swatches of reds, alarming in pigment, making a statement against the bare canvas. Stripes of yellows added the cheerfulness he desired, upbeat against the harsh blues; deep and somber. His fingers were stained the rainbow, flecks of paints drying into every groove of his skin, marking fingerprints, knuckles, and palm lines. He brushed the colorful crumbs off, staring at the sheet covered with color, seemingly slathered with paint with no care.

It was probably the paint fumes. Junhui squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, tearing the sheet off and threw its crumbled form into the overflowing wastebin in the corner of his room. The colorful sheet bouncing off the stack, rolling into a pile next to the bin.

He was in a rut.

Deciding to enter the art industry was risky, and he knew he would be a starving artist if he didn’t have a dancing instructor job lined up just in case. It was kicking his ass now as he laid on the cool wooden ground, trying to fabricate an idea for his final. It wasn’t just one, the final required four art pieces depicting the artist’s interpretation of love, each needing to be created with different supplies.

He had only completed two, a simple charcoal sketch of his mother’s hand lovingly caressing her large stomach holding the bundle of cells soon to be Wen Junhui. He had spent almost a month finishing that piece, charcoal permanently stained his cheeks as his roommate sympathetically brought venti coffees from the Starbucks his boyfriend worked at. Junhui was quite proud of it.

The other being another month-long project: an oil painting of his brother, Feng Jun. Feng Jun smiled crookedly as spread his arms above his head. Junhui vividly remembered that day, Feng Jun taking up his older brother’s passion of acting, showing off a script he had gotten. The messy bangs and bright smile was a memory tattooed in his brain after he had obtained a scholarship to an arts school in South Korea.

Junhui now stared at the empty page in front of him. He wanted to paint with watercolor, but every swipe of pastel blue or deep orange or bright burgundy brought a twisted face of disgust and he tore the sheet out. Paint and graphite covered his hands and he swiped at his cheek.

Maybe he needed a new scenery. Stuffing his feet into a pair of old Birkenstocks also covered in splatters of white paint, he left the house, leaving a trail of smeared graphite/paint handprints against the walls and doors. Minghao was going to kill him.

His black baggy jeans rode up with every step, but he couldn’t adjust them without smearing more color on them. Junhui sighed and entered the Starbucks just a block away from his apartment; most of the paint had dried and the graphite had worn away. It was a relatively empty, and Junhui claimed a seat facing out into the busy streets Seoul, trees planted sparsely between the sidewalks sprouting beautiful peach-colored flowers, scattering petals on the ground for people to step onto. He left his pencils and sketchbooks on the small table and headed to the cash register.

No one noticed him for a while as he stood there, staring up at the menu. Junhui scrunched his face, he hadn’t eaten since yesterday, too busy trying to paint something.

Suddenly, a tall boy, roughly the same age as him, smiled at him as he walked towards the register. A black beanie was pulled over the tip of his ears and round spectacles were pushed against his nose.

“Hi, welcome to Starbucks. How may I help you?” the boy asked in a deep voice that sent shivers down the artist’s spine. Wonwoo was written in sloppy writing on the black name tag pinned to the breast bone of the boy. “You have paint on your nose,” the barista commented, smiling slightly.

“Oh,” Junhui said blankly. He always had paint somewhere. He tried to brush off his nose, but felt paint crumbs embed into his skin, knowing he just smeared more paint on his nose.

The barista giggled. “I guess you can’t do much about it since your hands are covered. Don’t worry, we have napkins at the counter over there,” he said, pointing a pale finger to the other side of the room. “So, have you decided what you would like?”

Junhui’s stomach grumbled slightly. He needed sugar and caffeine or else he would starve or pass out from exhaustion. “Um, a venti caramel Frappuccino with an extra shot of espresso and a blueberry muffin, please.”

“Name?”

“Junhui.”

“Why don’t you just get some strong black coffee? You look tired,” the barista suggested.

“I like my coffee sugary.”

“That makes sense, you look a boy with a sweet tooth.”

The comment made Junhui blush a light pink for some reason. “So, I guess you’re a black coffee boy then.”

The barista smiled and nodded. “I like my coffee dark and strong.” Another barista wolf-whistled from the back as she blended a Frappuccino. She waggled her eyebrows, shooting a glance at Junhui and whispered something that Junhui felt was like you like men? The artist felt another blush form as he handed the boy a couple bills, fingers brushing against each other.

“Thank you,” the barista said. “Your muffin and drink will be at the end of the bar. Come again!”

Junhui slipped back into the seat he claimed in front of the expansive window, watching people pass by. As more people passed by, more petals fell. Delicate peachy-white cups of nature’s artwork onto the dirty, urban ground. He felt an itch in his colorful fingers to capture this, sketching the peach-colored flowers with the handsome barista at the forefront of his thoughts.  He had started the outline of the delicate flower with his favorite pencil when his name was called from the bar.

The barista stood at the end, smiling brightly with Junhui’s muffin and drink in hand. “Good luck on your project, Junhui.”

The boy whispered a shy thank you and scampered back into the seat. His appearance was a disheveled homeless man, Junhui did not want a hot boy to keep looking at him. He sipped the sugary overpriced milkshake and got back to work on the peach flowers.

Junhui’s mind wandered as he sketched out the petals, hands wandering to his backpack with his pastels. Hours passed and it was getting dark outside. Junhui glanced down at his paper.

One peach flower laid in the center of the drab sidewalk, rain falling into puddles around the flower. Delicate petals littered with fragile water droplets; two pairs of feet sat on either side of the flower, one being his old Birkenstocks and the other a simple outline of shoes.

Junhui didn’t know where his mind was going with it, but he wanted to finish it. The pastels left a waxy substance on his fingertips, adding more color onto his limbs.

He tried and tried, but every shoe, foot, and other he drew seemed wrong and was quickly erased. He had started to give up hope before he heard a rustle next to him.

The handsome barista was bent over the trashcan, changing out the bags. Junhui's eyes flirted   down Wonwoo’s body and to the black high top Converse on the boy's feet. The barista was definitely a 90s baby as crude sharpie drawings and phrases littered the graying rubber soles. Inspiration hit him like a truck and his hands grabbed his pencil and pastels, swiping dark colors onto the sheet until across his ugly Birkenstocks were the barista’s Converse.

Junhui stared at the piece. What did he just do?

His hands scrambled to tear the sheet out; he didn't even formally meet the barista, yet he just drew a heavily intimate scene of the two.

Just as his fingers gripped the edge of the paper, said barista bounded up to his side, looking extremely handsome with the sunset illuminating the pale skin in a warm orange tone. Junhui's hands itched to capture that scene with more pastels.

“Wow,” he whistled. “You're really good. That's so realistic.” If Wonwoo noticed the Converse across from the Birkenstocks were his, he didn't show it.

“Thank you,” Junhui said meekly, a wave of embarrassment coursing throughout his body. “I've been in such a creative rut lately. So, I'm just trying to find inspiration to draw again, and it doesn't help that I still need to finish my art final. Four pieces to finish and I've only finished two.”

“Well, make that three. This is really good.”

Junhui decided not to mention the theme of his final and just smiled. “You really think so?” He stared down at the piece. He could probably bullshit an answer about love.

“Yeah,” the barista said shyly. He seemed to flush a pink. “I wish I had talent like that.”

Junhui just smiled back, eyes wrinkling up. And the barista couldn’t help, but feel hypnotized by the artist.

“Oh,” Wonwoo said unexpectedly as if he just remembered something. It looked as if he snapped out of a trance. “I just wanted to tell you that we're closing in an hour. I know how artists get when they're in the zone and I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Wonwoo didn't make any move to leave, just staring at the artist’s face. “I know this is really unprofessional, but you still have paint on your nose.” Junhui moved to try to wipe it off, but Wonwoo beat him first. Grabbing a napkin from his apron, the barista gently wiped the tan nose with the napkin.

Junhui held his breath as Wonwoo gently cleaned off the paint, a smile graced on the barista’s face. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” Junhui said in a shaky voice. Both boys didn't move, not knowing how to react after that strangely intimate moment.

“I should go,” Junhui said reluctantly. “My roommate is probably worried.”

A flash of disappointment appeared on Wonwoo’s face before he forced a smile onto his lips. “Yeah, yeah. It is getting late.”

The artist packed up his belongings and smiled back at the barista. “Thanks again for everything.” And he waved at Wonwoo before exiting the coffee shop, a small grin on his face.

Wonwoo watched the artist leave before sighing like a lovesick teenager, goofy smile on his lips and eyes crinkles up. “Anytime,” he whispered.

His coworkers just laughed at the barista falling for an artist.

So, cliché.

 

For some reason, Junhui found himself back at the Starbucks, but with less paint this time. He actually took the time with his appearance: a fitted black jumper over white skinny jeans and Vans. He had even used Minghao's boyfriend’s fancy hair gel to style his hair back to show off his ‘sexy forehead’ (as quoted by said boyfriend).

The artist gripped his art bag and took a deep breath. It was just coffee and a potential eye full of sexy barista. He forged ahead.

The cool rush of air conditioning blew over his body and he slowly walked to the front, scanning the back to see if a certain barista was there.

And Wonwoo was there, arms flexing as he held a large bag of coffee beans above his head, pouring them into the coffee maker. Suddenly, Junhui was sexually attracted to pale, veiny arms. The barista finished pouring the beans and threw the paper bag away, glancing up to see Junhui gawking at him.

“Hey Junhui!” And Junhui tried to ignore the flutter in his stomach as Wonwoo remembered him. “You're back and with a clean face!”

The cashier rolled her eyes and let Wonwoo take over as the two boys made a beeline straight towards the other, only separated by the register.

“Yeah,” Junhui said. “I had such a creative surge yesterday, I decided to come back today.”

“That's great,” Wonwoo replied, a bit too enthusiastically and the cashier snorted, finishing the drink Wonwoo abandoned.  “So, what would you like today?”

“I would ask for your recommendation, but I can't handle your coffee.”

Wonwoo smiled. “Oh yeah, you're a sweet kind of guy.” There was an awkward silence and both boys didn't know what to do. “Please ignore what I said. So, Caramel Frappuccino?”

“Make it a java chip today,” Junhui said with a sweet smile. “I'm in a chocolate mood and Grande, I’m also a poor college student.”

Wonwoo nodded, grin just as large as Junhui's. “One Grande java chip coming up.”

Junhui smiled again and headed to the same stool he sat in before. After another sleepless night adding shadows and dimensions to the piece, he fell back into another rut. He kicked and turned in bed, not knowing what his last piece would be. His professor gave them the whole semester to work on their final, and the creative process was a bitch.

To say he was a bit panicky was an understatement.

“Junhui!” Wonwoo’s smooth voice jolted him out of his thoughts and turned to grab his sugary caffeine boost. Wonwoo stood there, with the same breathtaking grin, two drinks in hand. “Your sugar with coffee,” he smiled, handing over the overpriced milkshake. “And I added on something special.”

In his hand was a small iced coffee, a deep brown that reminded Junhui of Wonwoo's eyes. “Is that black coffee?” Wonwoo nodded.

“I've made it my mission to get you to tolerate black coffee,” Wonwoo declared proudly.

Junhui looked apprehensive. “Wonwoo,” he said with a pleading sort of whine. “I don't like bitter things.”

“So just take a sip and if you don't like it, give it to me and I'll show you how a man drinks his coffee.”

Junhui felt a smile creep onto his face. “Are you insinuating we have a coffee date?”

Wonwoo paled. “What?”

Embarrassment flooded Junhui's body. Was he reading too much into this? Coffee date on their second meeting; was that too soon? “Oh, I just thought…” he trailed off, not knowing how to cover his embarrassment. A female barista stepped up and nudged Wonwoo's side.

“He would love to have coffee with you,” she said, digging her elbow into Wonwoo's side. Minjee written in neat, loopy handwriting on her name tag. “His break is in twenty minutes, but as his manager, I'll let you go a few minutes early,” she said with a wink. Wonwoo looked a bit pale, but grabbed the iced coffee and followed Junhui to the bar stools.

It was a bit awkward at first as the two boys slipped onto the tall bar stools, but Junhui flashed a small smile at Wonwoo that seemed to calm the pale boy’s hyper nerves. “Take a sip,” he said softly, holding out the sweating up, ice cold water dripping over his fingers and onto the black tile floor. “It's good.”

Junhui scrunched up his face, nose wrinkled and eyes squinted; Wonwoo thought it was the most beautiful thing he had seen that day.

“For me?” Wonwoo added, slightly cocking his head as a puppy would do, eyes getting slightly larger.

Sticking out his bottom lip, Junhui huffed and gripped the cup, the cold condensation staining his hand with clear icy shock. He held his breath and took a sip through the iconic green strong. It wasn't the worst thing in the world, yet he almost gagged. The strong, bitter taste assaulted his taste buds with an acidic, sour taste. Junhui's nose scrunched up more. “Yuck.”

Wonwoo's eyebrows quirked up. “Yuck? You're so cute.”

Junhui would have blushed if it wasn't for the strong aftertaste lingering on his tongue and he took a large sip of his Frappuccino to wash it out. “Are you judging me?”

Wonwoo smiled and took a sip from Junhui's rejected coffee. “Maybe,” he hummed. “Who uses the word yuck at our age?”

“Me, you motherfucker.”

Wonwoo only laughed; head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth opened wide, shiny teeth glinting in the sunlight. Junhui thought it was the most beautiful thing he had seen that day.

Junhui smiled and grabbed his sketchbook, flipping to the peach flower pastel. He hasn't picked up the piece since yesterday and there were still dimensions and shadows needed to be brushed up on. He glanced down to the floor, black Converse tied onto the barista’s feet and he blushed.

“So, what is this for?” Wonwoo asked, watching the artist work his magic. Waxy pastels already staining his fingers; a peachy orange and dashes of white. Junhui just looked up and wiped his nose, smearing peach onto the side of his nose. He looked like he had a half-assed orange contour. “Oh, do you want me to leave? I understand if you want to work alone.”

Junhui shook his head and wrinkled his nose. He could feel the extra waxy layer on his nose. “No, you're fine. I was just thinking. This is part of my art final, which is comprised of four art pieces. This is number three.”

“Oh, so you're almost done.”

Junhui gave the non-artist a droll stare. “I had the whole semester for this project.”

“And you're at the arts university down the street?”

Junhui nodded and everything clicked in Wonwoo's head. The semester was ending in less than three months, which gave the artist roughly five months for the final. Wonwoo wasn't an art student, but he knew how shitty the creative process was. And just because you were ahead one day, didn't mean it would stay that way. Writer's block, or a creative block for lack of better terms, was a shitty bitch. “I study there too,” Wonwoo added. “Post-modern music and music production.”

Junhui added a bit more orange to the undersides of the petal and grabbed a gray pastel. “Oh, a music boy,” he said with a little grin. “You got a fire mixtape?”

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “Of course I do.”

“What a fuck boy,” Junhui said with just a bit of snark to set Wonwoo off.

“Hipster nerd,” Wonwoo shot back.

“Says the one wearing round glasses and a beanie.”

“Touché.”

Junhui hummed, sticking his tongue out as he tried to remember exactly how Converse looked. He hadn't worn his canvas sneakers in forever and didn't know how worn the rubber should be or what phrases were scrawled on the gray rubber. Junhui huffed and glanced over at the barista busy sipping his bitter coffee and scrolling through his phone, a bright glow reflecting onto his glasses.

Absolutely ethereal.

“Can I see your shoes?” Junhui asked abruptly and Wonwoo blinked, phone almost slipping out of his hands. Junhui flushed a light pink. “For reference?” he asked again, a lot more weakly and meek.

“Sorry, sorry,” Wonwoo said, shaking his head. “You just caught me off guard. Here do you want me to take them off or what?”

Junhui let out a sigh of relief. Either Wonwoo was just as awkward as him or Junhui was an actual normal and functional adult. He hoped it was the latter. Junhui pushed over another stool and patted the plush top. “Put your feet up,” he demanded.

Wonwoo, the dutiful barista, obliged.

Junhui could now see the phrases, in their sloppy glory, and he grayed out soles in precise detail. He hummed happily and gripped the gray pastel and continued shading.

It took almost an hour, but Junhui finished the pastel Converse, waxy and glinting in the sunlight. Oil pastels were always hard to work with, but if you did it right, the work was beautiful.

The details were a bit smudged, but that was the beauty of pastels. A blurry picture of color with every strike of pastel taking exact precision and thought.

“Wow,” Wonwoo commented, leaning over to peep over Junhui's shoulder. “You're good. Like really good.”

“I'm not even finished,” Junhui mumbled. His toes looked weird; why did he have to pick his Birkenstocks? He frowned and grabbed a golden/olivey hue that matched his skin tone and started adding more dimension to the sides.

“So?” Wonwoo said, sucking the last of the coffee through the straw, the loud slurps of the remaining liquid filling the quiet cafe. “I can't even write my name,” he said, pointing at his name tag. “Look how shitty it is.”

Junhui set down his pastel and cocked his head. His toes still looked weird, but he shook his head. “Here,” he said, fingers painted in pastel colors. “Let me write it,” he offered. Wonwoo swallowed. “Can I use my pastels?”

Wonwoo swallowed again. “I mean, I guess?” Wonwoo sounded unsure, but Junhui forged ahead, grabbing a pretty baby blue pastel, barely used, end still sharp. Wonwoo unclipped his name tag, wiping off the white chalk name scrawled onto it.

Junhui took the name tag, glad for something simple to take his mind off the final project. Wonwoo watched the artist create art out of something as simple as a name tag. The characters were neat with a bit of curve to the ends of them, giving it a bit of character… no pun intended. Junhui decorated the name with small hearts and even made use of his other pastels and drew a small Starbucks drink to the side. Wonwoo couldn't help the grin that spread on his lips as Junhui handed the black rectangle back to him.

“There,” Junhui announced. “Matches you now.”

They both ignored the flirty implications of that statement.

Junhui glanced down at his phone. “I have to go,” he said as the time flashed across the screen. “I have a dance class to teach soon.” And he started packing up his supplies. Finishing the Converse was a big accomplishment, needing only to add more to the background and touch up tiny details; he was almost three down with more than half the semester to go. Nice.

“You can dance and draw? What can't you do?” Wonwoo said in awe, sitting back in his seat.

“Produce music,” Junhui stated simply. With a wink and a beautiful smile, the artist left the cafe, leaving a certain barista a bit out of breath when he returned to his shift.

* * *

 

Junhui stayed holed up in his room for the next few days, in a sort of artist mode. Eating only when Minghao brought him food, Junhui stayed up for hours adding in strikes of pastel: to his Birkenstocks, the flower, the bustling background. He needed this to be perfect. Over a week passed before Minghao made him finally put the pastels down. It was the best it was going to be and if he added more, it would be fucking ugly. Sometimes Junhui loved the younger, sharp tongued boy. He was the embodiment of the meme he protect, but he also attack.

After Minghao locked him out of the art studio, Junhui decided to take a quick trip to Starbucks. He felt bad for leaving Wonwoo with an explanation, but it wasn't like they were close friends.

He walked into the cool cafe, the familiar smell of coffee beans filling his nose. Yet the familiar combination of a beanie and round spectacles wasn't there. Junhui tried not to look disappointed when he walked up to order his usual Frappuccino with Wonwoo's coworker Minjee working the register.

She smiled brightly at him. “Hey,” she greeted happily. “You're the guy Wonwoo keeps talking about.”

Junhui tried not to blush as he awkwardly nodded. “I guess I am.”

“Wonwoo's not working today,” she added in nonchalantly, punching in numbers into the register. Grande Java chip Frappuccino moved across the screen in neon green text. Junhui stared at it, impressed. “Did I get it right?” He just nodded.

“Score,” she said, pumping her fists. Junhui silently handed her the money and walked to the end of the bar. Minjee just had a loud personality too overwhelming for the artist, and it didn't help that he was a bit upset about the lack of hot fuckboy baristas.

A few minutes later, a Frappuccino with Junhui's name on it was handed to him. He cocked his head, the cup had more writing than needed. Junhui held it up. A couple numbers and a small note was hastily scrawled onto the side.

I know this is unprofessional, but here's his number so you can coordinate visits.

Junhui looked up at Minjee. She just winked at him and continued talking to a customer.

The artist smiled to himself as his heart skipped a beat. Thanks, he mouthed before leaving the cafe.

He was back in his room, hands shaking as he typed in every digit carefully. Just the thought of becoming closer with the barista sent his chest into a colorful frenzy, painting a vivid picture of emotions.

 

 _Junhui_ : hey...this is Junhui...the artist from Starbucks. Minjee gave me your number...I hope this isn't creepy

 _Wonwoo_ : Junhui!! No worries, Minjee gave me a heads up. She told me you came to see me...she didn't tell you anything embarrassing about me, right?

 _Junhui_ : nothing I can remember

 _Wonwoo_ : That's good.

 _Junhui_ : just that you talk about me a lot

 _Wonwoo_ : ….

 _Junhui_ : I thought it was cute

 _Wonwoo_ : oh, thank you :)

 _Junhui_ : um, what days do you work? so i know when to show up…. you’re fun to hang around

 _Wonwoo_ : really? I'm flattered. But usually I work two weekdays and one weekend, I can send my weekly schedule if you would like.

 _Junhui_ : if it isn't a big deal…

 _Wonwoo_ : No problem!!

 

Junhui couldn't help the giddy smile that spread across.

* * *

 

It soon became a pattern. On Sunday, Wonwoo would send Junhui the week’s schedule, and Junhui would pick the days that worked for him. Since Junhui was a college student, funds were a bit too tight for him to frequent Starbucks three times a week, especially for his taste in the more expensive Frappuccinos. He managed it to two days, one being a water day. Junhui sometimes spent Wonwoo's whole shift in the Starbucks, talking to him in between customers and attempting to come up with his last piece.

Minghao thought it was quite strange, spending time with the barista only in Starbucks, in the awkward gray area between flirting and chatting, but Junhui seemed happy, and that was good enough for Minghao.

Every time it wasn’t a water day for Junhui, the barista tried ruthlessly to get the artist to try black coffee again. Having a tall iced coffee already set out before the artist walked into the door. All the sweet talk and puppy dog eyes made Junhui soften, but he still kept up his stubborn resolve.

Junhui grumbled, grabbing the sweaty Frappuccino. It had been over a month and he still hadn’t come up with another idea. His sketchbook was filled with half sketched figures. He tried drawing his dad, Minghao and Mingyu, even a family portrait, but every time he finished the outline, it was scribbled out.

Why was it so easy to draw Wonwoo’s feet and not anything else?

“What’s with the ugly face?” a familiar deep voice asked from behind Junhui. The artist couldn’t help, but have a smile slip onto his face as he scribbled out attempt number thirteen at drawing Minghao. He couldn’t help, but feel happiness bubble up in his chest.

He turned around and gazed up at the tall barista, drinking up the fuckboy/hipster sight. “Just in a creative rut,” he said throwing his pencil onto the paper. “I don't know what to draw for my last piece.” Frustration was obviously gnawing at Junhui and Wonwoo sat down next to him.

“It’s my break now,” he explained, lightly bumping shoulders with the artist. “Try it.” And Wonwoo’s signature iced coffee was shoved into his face. The dark black mocking Junhui’s sugar tooth.

“Wonwoo,” he whined, batting the cup out of his face. “I don’t want to.”

“How about this,” Wonwoo offered, setting the cup down. “Minjee owes me a favor and said I could take off early any day I wanted, so do you want to hang out the rest of the day?”

Junhui pursed his lips. It was a Saturday and he had nothing else to do the rest of the day, well, other than cry about his creative rut. “I mean, I guess?” Junhui said.

Wonwoo smiled, almost vibrating with excitement. He reminded Junhui of an overexcited puppy. “Great,” he said. “Let me go clock out and let’s go!”

Junhui blinked and Wonwoo was running to the back, shouting at Minjee. And he blinked again, Wonwoo was back in front of him --minus the apron and name tag-- pulling on Junhui’s hand. The artist shook his head and shoved his sketchbook into his backpack and followed the hyper boy.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Back to my apartment.”

“You’re awfully excited about going back to your apartment,” he commented.

“Well, that’s because you’re going with me,” Wonwoo said as if it was obvious. Junhui felt a heated blush grow onto his face. “Besides, I know one way you're going to drink black coffee.” Junhui rolled his eyes, small grin on his face.

Wonwoo’s dorm was unexciting, to say the least. It was a college student’s apartment after all, but with Wonwoo’s appearance, Junhui had the expectation of a chic, Avant Garde room with mason jar lamps and organic hand woven rugs. It was just an apartment.

Mismatched furniture with random appliances everywhere. It was exactly like Junhui’s apartment, minus the stains from various art supplies.

“Sorry about the mess, my roommate is a dance major and throws his workout stuff everywhere,” Wonwoo apologized, leading Junhui into the small kitchen.

“I can relate,” Junhui muttered, thinking about Minghao. “So, how are you going to make me drink black coffee, Mister Bitter?”

“We’re on nickname basis now? Maybe I should call you Sugar Baby or Sweet Cheeks or-” Junhui slapped his hand onto Wonwoo’s mouth. As much as he would like to flirt, Wonwoo’s nicknames were atrociously cringey.

“Enough, Mister Bitter,” Junhui said, drawing out each syllable as he smiled widely at the man. Wonwoo smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of his head.

“Wait here,” he said. “And close your eyes.”

Junhui rolled his eyes, but listened. Definitely an oversized puppy.

Squeezing his eyes shut for a couple moments, he heard Wonwoo walk back in, bare feet dragging on the carpet. “Ready?” he heard the baritone voice rumbled. Junhui nodded, smile still on his lips. “Okay.”

Junhui prepared himself for the feeling of cold ceramic and bitter coffee, but was met with a pair of plush lips and a tongue tasting of coffee. Wonwoo’s hands had found their way onto his cheeks, cupping them and tilting Junhui’s face towards Wonwoo. The artist opened his eyes, but squeezed them shut again, relishing the smooth feeling of the kiss.

They had to breathe at one point, and Wonwoo slowly released Junhui’s face, breathing hard. “How was it?”

Junhui grinned. “I don’t know. Maybe I should try it again.” Wonwoo shook his head and smiled fondly. Junhui looked at him, feeling a bit brash, and wriggled his fingers under Wonwoo’s beanie, tangling his fingers into the messy locks of hair.

Lips met lips again.

Nothing but the pink, pink, pink of pure happiness coloring Junhui’s chest., deepening into the deep crimson of passion curling all the way down into his toes, turning into the scarlet of lust.

Wonwoo would say they made love, or fucked for lack of better terms.

But Junhui would say they made art.

The white hot electric spiking up his spine, the deep brown of eyes as pupils dilated, the red raised lines Junhui scratched onto the pure white of Wonwoo’s back as his toes curled in ecstasy. Ebony hair splayed across the pillow, sweat dripping down pink flushed cheeks. Golden brown and pure white flush against the other, quivering in pleasure.

Junhui thought it was art as he screamed Wonwoo’s name.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” Wonwoo said out of the blue as they laid on Wonwoo’s rumpled bed, relishing in post-coital bliss. Junhui barked out a laugh, rolling over to rest his chin of Wonwoo’s lean stomach. A pale hand found its way onto Junhui’s back, petting the smooth skin.

“I’m glad I met you,” Wonwoo said and Junhui scoffed.

“Is it because we just had sex?”

“No,” Wonwoo said, lightly slapping Junhui’s butt. “That’s only part of the reason.”

The artist laughed and rolled out of bed, pulling on his underwear.

“Ah, the sun is setting now. It’s beautiful,” Wonwoo commented. Junhui glanced back at Wonwoo.

Blanket draped across his shoulders, dipping down to his chest as he stared out of the window, illuminated by the golden glow of the sunset; hair a mess from Junhui’s constant pulling and bangs sticking to the drying sweat on his forehead.

Junhui stopped. He couldn’t stop staring.

The sight in front of him was ethereal. Golden honey basked the man in all his naked glory and Junhui loved it.

His fingers started to itch.

In a flurry of motions, the artist, only in his underwear, sprinted to his bag, grabbing his sketchbook and pencil and hopped onto the desk chair.

“Don’t move,” Junhui said. Wonwoo flinched, but stayed where he was.

Motivation was coursing through Junhui’s body as his hand moved across the sheet, capturing this beautiful moment that Junhui never wanted to forget.

Wonwoo was a blessing.

“I’m glad I met you too.”

 

Junhui spent the next three weeks back in his art room, surrounded by red solo cups of water and his expensive watercolors. His back hurt as he sat hunched over the piece, dragging the paint brush in attempt to capture the sharp edges of jaw line he fell for and the curves of the shoulders he gripped so tightly. Watery hues pooled together, mixing into colors Junhui loved as he swirled the paint brush around.

The end of the semester loomed ahead, two weeks until his art final was due and Junhui still sat in his room, adding the last strikes of ebony to Wonwoo’s head. He was tired and a bit grumpy, but it was worth it. There were only a few pieces he immediately loved after he finished, this one being one of them.

Minghao had stopped by earlier and handed him a Green Tea latte from Starbucks--Wonwoo. He gratefully took it and placed it on his desk. Junhui smiled to himself and turned off his laptop blasting Wonwoo’s mixtape. Despite basically living in the studio for a month, he still kept in contact with the barista: flirty texts and late night FaceTime. Junhui ignored the fact they were in gray area of friends and lovers, and enjoyed spending the time with Wonwoo.

He went to place the brush back into the water cup when his arm jerked, knocking over the Starbucks cup, spilling the pastel green liquid onto Wonwoo.

Junhui could only watch in horror as the artwork he slaved over a month on earn an ugly green sheen. The green mixed with colors he spent forever mixing with water for the right consistency and shade. If this was any other moment, Junhui would scream before laughing how Wonwoo was now Shrek, but it wasn’t.

He couldn’t scream.

Not when the piece dedicated to capture the beauty of Wonwoo was ruined. By the green of jealousy and greed. Not literally, but Junhui lived surrounded by colors, breathing in every hue. He spent so much blood, sweat, and tears making sure every swipe of his brush perfectly embodied Wonwoo.

And some simple movement ruined it all.

He couldn’t scream.

But eventually he did.

His fingers tore through his hair.

He screamed.

All he could feel was crimson rage.

And nothing more.

Minghao was the one who found him. Curled up in a ball, swallowed up in an oversized hoodie, the crumbled, tea-stained paper in his clutch.

Minghao sighed and sat down on the bed. Junhui could feel the mattress dip under the weight and he braced himself for a bombardment of angry encouragement.

“Do you need me to call Wonwoo?” Minghao asked instead and Junhui nodded.

All he could feel was gray anxiety pulling at his chest, demanding to be felt.

In a matter of minutes, Minghao was out of the room and replaced by Wonwoo, laptop in hand, headphones around his neck, having had run from a session in the studios composing a piece for his music final.

Wonwoo swallowed. He could be an asshole and tell Junhui to just draw a new one, but he wasn't. He just sat next to Junhui, carding his fingers through the artist’s hair.

“Do you want me to do anything?” he asked gently.

Junhui breathed loudly and blinked. He moved towards Wonwoo, placing his head in the barista’s lap and looked up, staring into the deep chocolate orbs. “Just stay with me.”

“Okay.”

Eventually, reality struck and Junhui pulled himself out of bed, pushing his hair out of his eyes with an old Nike headband and sat back at his desk. This time, drained of energy and ideas.

In front of him sat the empty sketchbook, mocking him with its white blankness, mimicking the void he had in his head.

He turned to lazily watch Wonwoo finish his composition, music blasting through the headphones as pale fingers flew across the keys. Junhui stared a bit longer, watching the man bob his head to the beat, feeling the music as it was a part of him. Eyes closed, head tilted back, black sweater dipping off one shoulder, exposing sinful collarbones; Wonwoo was in his element and Junhui felt a kick.

The kick of inspiration, shocking as a bright yellow sun. Not the golden honey that basked Wonwoo in a sensual seduction as before, but a jolt of thoughts that fueled his desire.

There was the realization of how much Wonwoo was like him. Fueled through creativity, letting just thoughts take them away to their happy places.

Wonwoo was Junhui’s fuel. Something he could get drunk off, feeling the smooth touch of skin on skin, person on person, individual on individual. Their elements, whether be music or art, having the expression of love, hate, family.

Junhui felt the shocking kick of inspiration--a neon, lemon yellow.

His pencil moved across the sheet again, needing to capture this moment, not because of the euphoria of post-coital lust, but because of beginnings. Not the beginnings of love, it was too early for that.

Beginnings of what could be love.

Watery ebony strands on top of pale white, life only added with a dash of dusty rose, teal and sapphire swirled in the background.

Junhui found love in art at the age of four. Wonwoo found love in music at the age of six.

They found love in each other at the age of twenty-three.

* * *

 

Three years later.

After obtaining an A for his final, Junhui had framed each piece from his final, showcasing it on the drab beige wall. Junhui begged Minghao for a new paint job, but the smaller boy refused. Talking about the effort in moving furniture and time.

Junhui settled for framing as many portraits he created as possible.

But the most important ones were inside his room. The rough canvas of his brother, the shadows of his mother, and the colors of Wonwoo, his boyfriend.

It became official after that late-night painting Wonwoo. Blue permanently stained his fingertips as he stuck his tongue out in concentration, trying to get the arch of his eyebrows just perfect. Junhui heard the thump as Wonwoo flopped back onto the bed, headphones thrown to the side.

Wonwoo had asked him to play a song out loud. Junhui obviously said yes as he finished the sharp edge to the brow. A heavy beat with electric synth filled the room, which Junhui loved.

He always loved everything Wonwoo produced, and it was totally not influenced by the fact they were kind of boyfriends and had slept together.

Junhui bobbed his head to the beat as he washed his brush out, swirling it in the dark navy water, the black diffusing and staining every molecule to a darker ebony. Suddenly the beat cut away and an electronic voice sung the words Be my boyfriend?. It repeated two more times before the music stopped and Wonwoo smiled at him sheepishly.

It was cheesy and cringey, but Junhui smiled.

“You know, you could've asked,” he said, dipping his brush into the clear water and dragging it in the deb brown watercolor paste.

“I know,” Wonwoo said with a cheeky smile on his lips. “But where’s the fun in that?”

It had been three years and they were still going strong. Wonwoo still kept that cheesy twenty second song in his hard drive, playing it on nights when Junhui was grumpy.

Junhui’s life was color. He liked bright blues and reds the best, but had a soft spot for pastels.

It was cheesy for an artist to say that, but he didn’t care. He was a freelancer now, taking up the odd jobs that didn’t require a need for a shock of inspiration.

But sometimes, he would dip into that neon yellow shock and draw. Draw whatever caught his eye first, most of that time it would be his music producer boyfriend, already working with big name producers in the big companies.

He lived in color.

The yellow orange of the sunset, mixing with the navy blues of the sky, the lavender of Wonwoo’s favorite socks, the deep crimson roses set on his desk every first of the month, even the pastel green that turned his beautiful Wonwoo into an ugly ogre became present in his life.

Junhui lived in color.

The colors that made him realize he was in love. The shock of the neon yellow turning into dusty pink, blooming into crimson red. It wasn’t the shock of butterflies or violins humming in the background or whispers dripping like honey from God’s lips. No, it wasn’t.

It was the deep greenish-purple bruise that formed on Wonwoo’s pale shin after he tripped on the uneven carpet in Junhui’s room. He had been too excited to share that the Big Three had all emailed him, tripping as he held the laptop, shielding the expensive technology away from slamming into the ground.

It was the deep rose that surfaced in his pale cheeks as he laughed. Wonwoo had laughed many other times, but this time, it was if time slowed. Junhui always thought of Wonwoo’s laugh to be a bright orange, so hearty and deep, you could feel it from your ears to the tips of your toes.

Wonwoo smiled the dazzling smile up at the concerned artist, paintbrush shoved above his ear, bristles painting a royal blue onto his temple. The music producer wasn’t as concerned, just laughing as a nice bruise formed on his leg.

Junhui had not fallen in love then, but rather, he was already in love. The shiny silver of realization bloomed in his chest.

Junhui’s fingers itched.

**Author's Note:**

> scream with me on [tumblr](http://minimumobsession.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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